


A Little Less Conversation

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:43:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just strengthening exercises. You know how it is,” Kaká says, although he isn’t sure Cristiano does. Kaká never followed Cristiano’s career closely, but he’s pretty sure Cristiano has never been off the pitch for eight months, has never had his body betray him so completely. Looking at him now, the sunlight turning his white practice jersey golden, his body solid and unscarred, Kaká can’t imagine Cristiano doing anything but playing football. His surroundings seem designed for him, the darkening turf around them and the white-blue evening sky. Kaká swallows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Less Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic for yeats, who won me in thepurpledove charity auction.
> 
> thanks to acchikocchi for beta-ing this for me, and ashirbaad for helping me brainstorm

It’s early evening when Kaká leaves the training facility. He’s still in physical therapy twice a week. He tries not to mind - he is of course incredibly fortunate to play football at all, let alone for one of the best teams in the world - but Kaká can’t help wishing that God, in his infinite wisdom, had found a better way of testing Kaká’s patience. Alternatively, he wishes that his trainer were a little less of a... of an effing sadist. Kaká tries to avoid profanity when he can, be be thinks that two hours of squats is just a tad extreme.

Someone is still on the practice pitch. The sun’s setting, streaking the pitch with long lines of shadow, so Kaká can’t tell who it is. He waves, anyway, on the off chance the other player is looking at him, too. It’s the friendly thing to do.

The figure waves back and yells, “What’re you still doing here?” in Portuguese. Kaká smiles and jogs over toward Cristiano, ignoring the spreading soreness in his knee. Breathe through it, he reminds himself.

“Physical therapy,” he tells Cristiano, panting a little, when he’s at the other end of the field.

Cristiano shields his eyes with one hand and Kaká belatedly realizes he must have the setting sun directly behind him. He should shift himself, but doesn’t.

“Your knee?” Cristiano asks, his eyes darting down, even though Kaká’s wearing jeans and there’s nothing to see, no sign of his weakness.

“Just strengthening exercises. You know how it is,” Kaká says, although he isn’t sure Cristiano does. Kaká never followed Cristiano’s career closely, but he’s pretty sure Cristiano has never been off the pitch for eight months, has never had his body betray him so completely. Looking at him now, the sunlight turning his white practice jersey golden, his body solid and unscarred, Kaká can’t imagine Cristiano doing anything but playing football. His surroundings seem designed for him, the darkening turf around them and the white-blue evening sky. Kaká swallows.

“Yeah,” Cristiano says, “it fucking sucks, doesn’t it?” He turns away from Kaká and kicks a ball up in the air, catching on the top of his right foot and bouncing it there. “I was working on free kicks, but.” He looks at Kaká, then lobs the ball gently to Kaká. Kaká stops the ball with his chest and lets it drop back to the pitch.

“I don’t want to get in the way of your practice,” Kaká says, which is true. He’s also pretty tired - practice this morning with the team, physical therapy this afternoon, and Kaká’s not as young as he used to be. But. It’s nice to be asked.

Cristiano shrugs expansively. “I’m not practicing. I mean, not officially. I just needed to relax, you know?” Kaká kicks the ball back to Cristiano.

Cristiano grins and runs down the pitch, indulging himself with a few stepovers. Kaká shakes his head and jogs after him. He’s going to regret this in morning. “You relax by taking free kicks for three hours after practice?”

“Well, my favorite strip club was closed for the afternoon,” Cristiano calls back to him, passing him the ball. Kaká slows, trapping the ball. “That was a joke,” Cristiano says, abruptly, looking back at him. “Just to clarify.”

“I know,” Kaká says, moving to set Cristiano up for a goal. Which is stupid, since the goal’s open in front of him, but still.

“What do you do?” Cristiano asks, once he’s gotten the ball back from inside the goal. He plants the ball in front of him, and looks off into the distance.

“To relax? Not football. Or strip clubs.”

“Why not?” Cristiano squares his shoulders. “I bet you can’t score from here.” They’re standing at the outside of the box, and Cristiano is pointing to the goal at the opposite end of the pitch.

“Surprisingly, I’m not a huge fan of strip clubs. And football...I don’t think many accountants relax by doing math.” He lines himself up to the ball and kicks. It sails up and hits the pitch short of the goal, then bounces in. “Does that count?”

Cristiano laughs. “I have no idea.” There’s another ball lying not too far from them, Cristiano goes and gets it, then lines up his own shot. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Kaká sighs. He doesn’t remember Cristiano being this chatty before his injury, but he could be misremembering. “The usual, I suppose. Read, take a long shower, sacrifice small animals by the light of the full moon.”

Cristiano’s shot goes wide of the goal by a foot or two. Kaká looks over and sees Cristiano swallow. “I thought you belonged to Jesus,” he says, after a long moment.

“I’m out on loan right now,” Kaká replies, and Cristiano snorts with laughter. They stand next to each other, twilight softening around them into nighttime. Cristiano shifts from foot to foot, and Kaká wonders if he ever is completely still.

“We should get those balls before it gets too dark,” Kaká says finally.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cristiano says. “I’ll get them when I leave.”

“You’re staying? You should...” Kaká cuts himself. It isn’t his place to offer unsolicited advice. Cristiano gives a sort of hollow laugh.

“You’re right. I should go home.” He takes a deep breath. “Wanna come over for dinner?”

Kaká takes a second to think of the appropriate reply. “Of course, I’d love to. May I ask why?”

Cristiano mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “so fucking polite, Jesus Christ.”

“Pardon?” Kaká asks. Mostly to mess with him. Cristiano laughs.

“Well, you did win our bet. Plus, it’d be nice to have dinner with someone who knows more than three words.”

Kaká realizes Cristiano’s talking about his son. “I have a decent vocabulary.”

“I bet you do,” Cristiano says, not missing a beat. Something in his voice makes Kaká blush. He’s thankful for the dark.

They clear the field more or less in silence, then head to their cars. “Follow me?” Cristiano asks, getting his car, and Kaká nods. He calls Caroline at a red light and offers his apologies for missing dinner.

“Cristiano invited me to his house,” he tells her, and she laughs, gently, knowingly.

“Have fun,” she says. “I won’t wait up.” The light turns green and Kaká hangs up.

Cristiano’s house is large, but surprisingly tasteful. Kaká tries to repress that thought, but it’s too late. A lot of things about Cristiano surprise Kaká. They enter through the back door, into a brightly lit kitchen. There’s an older woman standing inside, feeding a baby.

“I didn’t expect you back so early,” she tells Cristiano. “Do you want me to stay?”

Cristiano shakes his head. “No, thank you, Maria. I’ve got him from here.” He’s blushing slightly. Maria smiles at both of them and gives the baby a kiss on the head. “There’s soup on the stove,” she tells Cristiano. “See you tomorrow morning.” Then she’s gone.

Cristiano picks his son up and lifts him up high into the air, twice, three times. The baby babbles happily, and Cristiano cradles him to his chest.

“This is my son, Cris” he says, a slightly unnecessarily introduction, but Kaká appreciates it nonetheless. Kaká smiles and holds out a hand. The baby grabs one of his fingers tightly.

“He likes you,” Cristiano says. “I always knew he had terrible taste.” Kaká smiles at both of them.

“Actually,” Cristiano says, after a second, “if I could ask you a favor? I need to go take a shower and change so if you could take him for a few minutes?” Kaká nods, and holds out his arms to accept the child. Cristiano transfers his son over carefully. Their bodies are close together, Kaká can smell the crushed grass and sweat on Cristiano. It isn’t unpleasant. Their arms brush, then Cristiano steps back. He’s flushed.

“I’ll just go,” Cristiano pauses, “shower, then,” he says, turning and walking out of the room. Kaká realizes Cristiano’s still wearing his football boots, they click on the hardwood floor. It’ll wreck the finish of course, but Kaká doubts Cristiano notices, or cares if he does.

Kaká sits Cris back down in his high chair. He has some cubes of fruit to eat, but seems more interested in throwing them at Kaká then putting them in his mouth.

Kaká’s just been hit in the head by a particularly well-directed piece of banana when Cristiano returns. He’s wearing jeans and a tight white t-shirt. He’s barefoot, and Kaká can’t help notice his toes are purple with nail polish. His hair looks wet, and unstyled. He sees Kaká wiping his forehead and laughs.

“He got you?” Kaká nods. “Sorry about that,” Cristiano continues.

“I don’t mind,” Kaká tells him. “At least he didn’t throw up.”

“Thank fuck,” Cristiano. “He had stomach flu the week after El Clásico.” He smiles thinly. “Trust me, you don’t know rock bottom until you have a barfing baby in your lap and Jose Mourinho screaming at you over speaker phone.”

“That sounds...unpleasant.” Kaká winces in sympathy. Cristiano shrugs and moves to set the table. When he reaches up to reach the bowls, his shirt rides up to show his stomach. Kaká looks back toward the baby, who is now sucking on his thumb happily.

Cristiano fills two bowls with soup and moves them to the table, then pours himself a glass of water. He looks at Kaká. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Water’s fine, thank you” Kaká says, although he could really use a glass of wine. He remembers that Cristiano doesn’t drink, and doesn’t want to cause him discomfort. But at the same time, Kaká wishes he had something to help him relax. He has no reason to be this jumpy.

Kaká takes a sip of water to try to calm himself, and says a quick and silent prayer. Cristiano’s already eating, quickly.

“Thanks for having me over,” Kaká says.

Cristiano shrugs. “You beat me. It’s fair.”

“You have dinner dates with everyone you lose to?” As soon as he says it, Kaká regrets his word choice. Cristiano looks down at his food, then back up at Kaká.

“Yeah, and you wouldn’t believe how awkward it was after the World Cup. Pique has terrible manners” Cristiano says. “You go out to dinner with everyone who loses to you?” Kaká notices Cristiano is running his fingers back and forth over the edge of the table.

“Now that would be really awkward,” Kaká says, laughing.

“So I guess I’m just special, then,” Cristiano says. He makes eye contact for a second with Kaká, then abruptly turns to face Cris, who is currently sucking on the head of a plastic dinosaur.

“I need to go put him to bed,” Cristiano says. “Sorry. Babies, sleep schedules. You understand.”

“Of course,” Kaká says. Cristiano scoops up his son and carries him out of the room, babbling to him under his breath. Kaká finishes his dinner and rises to wash his dishes. He’s half-tempted to dig through Cristiano’s drawers, to look for search for some new piece of information. But Kaká knows all he would uncover would be spoons and a new source of guilt.

“You know, you don’t need to do the dishes,” Kaká turns and sees Cristiano standing in the doorway. His arms are folded across his chest. He looks like he’s just stepped out of a photo shoot. Although Kaká’s been in a few photo shoots himself, and he knows that they mostly involve trying not to be blinded by the flashbulbs and avoiding making a fool of yourself. And usually no shirt. So maybe it’s more accurate to say that Cristiano looks...healthy. Fit. Comfortable in his own skin. Beautiful.

“I don’t mind helping,” Kaká says, feeling unbalanced.

“I’ll dry, then,” Cristiano says, taking a bowl from out of Kaká’s hands. They work together in silence. Their hands brush twice, just the tips of Cristiano’s fingers against the tips of Kaká’s. The first time, Kaká looks over at Cristiano, but Cristiano’s eyes are down. The second time, their eyes meet. Kaká lets go of the pan and it falls to the counter with a clatter.

“Sorry, I. I thought you had that,” Kaká says. His chest feels tight.

“Jesus christ,” Cristiano says, “are you going to do my dishes or are you going to fuck me?”

Kaká’s brain stutters for a second. “I suppose we could. That. Yes.”

Cristiano looks at him like he’s a revelation. “You suppose.” He shakes his head. “Has anyone ever told you you’re completely unhinged?”

“No more talking,” Kaká decides, and puts his hands on Cristiano’s hips. They’re still wet, and the material of Cristiano's t-shirt soaks through. Cristiano twists himself closer, and his shirt rides up so Kaká’s touching skin.

“Sounds like a plan,” Cristiano mutters, before Kaká leans in and kisses him.


End file.
